Grandpa continued the journey alone.
He was excluded from the Communist Party for having been a prisoner of war. He returned to the village and his wife. During the next few postwar years they produced three sons.
Here they are, the sons — in another photograph. Sasha’s father Vasily stands between Grandma and Grandpa, white-headed, his hair like sunbleached flax. Grandpa cradles the middle son in his arms; Grandma holds the youngest. Grandpa is lean, tall, work-worn, stern. Grandma’s face is dark, her cheeks thin, not resembling herself at all. Raising three children was tough on her.
Next to this one, another photo — Sasha’s great-grandfather and comrades. This time it’s World War I. There are four soldiers in front of a bunker, their faces horselike, elongated, meaningless, dignified
